


A Heated Singularity

by wombuttress



Series: Poor Communication Kills [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, heterosexual claptrap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:10:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6605095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan is a very attractive, notoriously single man, and Skyhold's interested population will not allow him to forget it--be it through flame or wild animals or outright kidnapping.</p><p>(He's too hot. Hot damn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heated Singularity

Hathorn Lavellan was remarkable, and not only in a few ways.

Most notably, he had but recently fallen physically out of the Fade with the key to closing the rifts in his left hand. He was also Dalish elf, which he did not personally consider remarkable, but the remarkability of which he could no longer avoid. He was a talented archer of no mean skill—anyone who saw him shoot arrows while performing backflips or jumping from rock to rock was liable to accuse him of showing off, which he was. Additionally, he was becoming something of a cult religious figure, and many now called him the Herald of Andraste. Hathorn, for his part, had no idea who Andraste was or why he was heralding her, and was really very keen on never having to find out.

He was also absurdly, incredibly, unfairly beautiful.

He had to know. Nobody _strutted_ the way Hathorn did without knowing how pretty he was. Nobody backflipped while shooting arrows with such lithe grace without knowing full well the extent of his rugged yet elegant beauty. Nobody aggressively prevented being told who Andraste was without the confidence conferred by a comeliness that surely was divine in origin. He _had_ to know. He just had to.

The effect was simply too powerful. The first time he met the advisors to the new-formed Inquisition, he disrupted a natural order of attractiveness. Leliana was a classic, lively Fereldan beauty with all the grace of an Orlesian noblewoman. Josephine was fashionable, kind, and radiated such peace that it made her physical loveliness all the more sweet. And Cullen, according to those who had known him longest, had surely recently made a deal with some sort of demon to obtain his ridiculously good looks, outmatched only by his ridiculous outfit. It was a common joke amongst those at Haven that the advisors to the Inquisition were chosen for very specific public relations reasons.

But when Hathorn entered the room, he blew them all right out the water. Josephine’s mouth dropped gently open. Cullen suddenly felt very uncomfortable in a way he could not describe or acknowledge. Leliana had already met him, but had not seen him in a state not covered in Fade gunk, blood, and dirt. Now she could not help but stare.

Cassandra, who already disliked this smarmy, irritating elf who refused to allow her to explain Andrastianism no matter how hard she tried, made a noise of utter disgust, and Hathorn didn’t react at all.

“He can be an Inquisition Agent,” Josephine remarked to Leliana, watching the Herald—although his exquisite features would have puckered at the mention of the title—practice his archery in the yard. For some reason, Hathorn seemed immune to the cold, and felt that this was something that ought to be done in nothing but leggings and a sleeveless shirt.

“In charge of what, recruitment?” Leliana said.

“Well,” said Josephine, slightly distracted, as Hathorn had decided the freezing mountain air was too warm even for a shirt, and had removed it. “Well, yes.”

Leliana considered. “Ah, Josie, you may be on to something here.”

There was a pause. “But surely he knows,”Josephine said in awe.

Leliana had not the certainty to reply.

Sending Hathorn off into the wilds to close rifts and recruit people to the Inquisition turned out to be a wild success. Every time the elf would return from his lengthy sojourns—covered in twigs and dirt and sweat, and yet somehow more attractive for it—he would be leading a larger and larger retinue of mostly women. And quite a few men.  And assorted others.

Hathorn, when not being shoved out of Haven to go collect more recruits and put the demons back in their time-out boxes, habitually spent time with Sera. Nobody knew why. Sera had made her distaste for 'elfiness' clear, and Hathorn practically bled Dalish pride. He routinely out-elfed Solas, simply by loudly mentioning his Dalishness at every convenient opportunity.

And yet, Sera was the only person in Haven he seemed to have any real fondness for.

“This Inquisition isn’t so bad,” she said, drawing her bow. “Lots of girls in it these days.” She loosed the arrow and hit a bullseye on the target.

Hathorn grunted affirmatively, and matched her shot. “Bet you I could hit that pinecone.”

“Bet you couldn’t!”

They were watched, in their practice, by a small horde of young singletons, who were all thinking the same thing. That Hathorn was, by all appearances, a man. And that Sera was, approximately, a woman.

This could only mean one thing, they knew.

Several of them burst into disappointed tears and fled the scene.

But, they supposed, they ought to have known better. An elf like the Herald wouldn’t remain unattached for long. Surely he would find himself a partner immediately, assuming he didn't have one already--or several. But, oh woe, what could he possibly see in that grubby little elven girl, with her ugly hair and filthy mouth and torn clothing? What could he be thinking? Perhaps she was befuddling him. Perhaps she was a maleficar. Perhaps she was _bewitching_ him.

They looked positively _ridiculous_ next to each other. When would the Herald see sense?

Sera became the target of a certain amount of vitriol, which was aimed at her in a manner of such mean subtlety that she did not particularly notice. They made passive-aggressive comments. They mildly insulted her torn clothing and choppy haircut. They made _implications._

If anyone had bothered to point out to Sera that this is occurring, they would likely receive, at most, a "Wot?"

This continued, until Sera was discovered stealthing away semi-nude from Flissa’s room in the early pre-dawn light. And then from Lysette’s. And then from Threnn’s. Well, one woman was one thing, but three? Three was a _pattern._ And given that the Herald did not seem particularly troubled by Sera's flings...

The news spread fast. Soon all of Haven’s interested parties were fully informed that whatever the bizarre relationship of the Herald and the grubby elven girl in red was, it certainly was not sexual.

Hathorn never had  any peace after that.

The following morning, he exited his quarters. A pair of human women were just outside, which startled him. He looked from one to the other. Then he brushed past them, saying nothing, and headed to the stream to bathe.

Halfway there, he noticed that the two of them were still following, half-peeking out from a pair of snow-covered trees.

He hesitated, awkwardly. “Shoo,” he tried, waving them off. They burst into raucous giggles and fled.

Hathorn didn’t understand, and had the vague suspicion that there were more of them hiding in the bushes, but he didn’t particularly care. Dalish notions of modesty were not quite as savage as the shemlen made them out to be, but Hathorn's were. An elf had to bathe.

He enjoyed a nice crisp morning bath, watching chunks of ice float through the river. Refreshing. He went through his grooming process, enjoying the peace and imagined solitude. Halfway through dressing, a third appeared at his elbow. “Let me help you with that,” she said eagerly, snatching up his overcoat away from where he could comfortably reach it.

Shemlen were truly bizarre, Hathorn thought, and passively allowed this nonsense to happen to him. She and two friends insistently dressed him, their hands lingering uncomfortably on his chest. He offered them bemused glances, at which they blushed and fell away, conveniently allowing him to make his way back to Haven.

On his way to the Chantry to meet with the Inquisition’s advisors for the day’s agenda, he was met by a small crowd, at least five this time. They blocked his path, flanking him, and closed in behind him, too. He could still have escaped, if he really wanted, by performing a back flip and maybe shooting an arrow at them. But what gave him pause was the creature that accompanied them.

They had a…wolf.

A wolf. A live wolf. On a rope, muzzled.

“We caught this for you,” one said anxiously. "He's all yours!" another added.

The longer the silence stretched on, the more nervous they seemed.

Hathorn blinked at them. "Thank...you?"

“I told you this wasn’t really a Dalish courting ritual,” one hissed to the other, who looked terribly guilty.

The wolf seemed rather elderly and docile, and gazed at Hathorn forlornly. Hathorn suspected it had become separated from its pack, and was now just barely eking out a living in these harsh climes. It looked so thin and scraggly and lost that Hathorn fell instantly in love.

“You can put him in my quarters,” he said. “I suppose.”

The gaggle dispersed, leading the wolf to his quarters. Hathorn could hear them arguing furiously under their breaths. He put it from his mind and devoted the whole of his cerebral resources to thinking of a name for his new wolf.

The horde also attempted direct flirtation.

Flirtation with Hathorn only ever went one way. Badly.

A flirtatious comment, no matter how clever, coy or suggestive, would invariably be met with—at best!—an affirmative grunt from the Herald. The rarity of an “mhmm” was such that those who could elicit one were considered supernaturally charismatic. One particularly adventurous woman actually entered his quarters wearing nothing but a filmy open robe, which earned her a record-breaking amount of attention: a glance, and an "Aren't you cold?"

Hathorn was starting to get a little annoyed.

“So,” Sera said to him one day, leaning against a wall. “You gonna do anything with them all?”

“Why would I do anything at all with them?” Hathorn said, mystified.

“Ehehe, you’re right. More for me. Ooh, do you think you could publically reject the redhead with all the freckles? So I can seek her out and comfort her afterwards?”

“Reject her what?” Hathorn said, puzzled. Sera gigglesnorted and bolted from the room.

Now that Haven’s population knew that Sera had no intentions upon the Herald, and his obstinate refusal to be moved by the propositions of dozens of not-at-all-hideous young women became even more mysterious. The Horde briefly ceased their attempts to confer amongst each other. What could possibly be the problem?

Then it slowly dawned on them all.

Cassandra.

Of _course_ it had to be Cassandra. She was tall, and human ( _much_ preferable to grubby little elves, obviously), and—well, not beautiful, but _handsome,_ and certainly looked good in armor. And she was a princess! Perhaps they had not previously viewed her as competition due to certain elements of her personality. And was the Herald not always inviting her along on his missions? Was he not constantly walking with her around Haven, discussing “business”? Did Cassandra not regularly say that she found him to be the most irritating little man she had ever met? And, indeed, did Hathorn not _obviously_ delight in getting on Cassandra’s nerves?

Oh, but it had to be Love.

Cassandra dealt significantly less well with being the target of Hathorn’s following than Sera.

She endured perhaps three days at Haven of this before confronting him.

Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast was _really_ good at confrontation.

“Herald!” she raged, slamming open the door to his quarters. He briefly glanced up from his task of fletching arrows. His wolf—who he had named Hen’Farel—was sleeping peacefully before the fire, and  barely stirred at the disruption. The creature was the least bloodthirsty thing Hathorn had ever met. He adored it.

“Hello, Cassandra,” he said.

“I do not normally concern myself with the opinions of the masses, but I am growing extremely tired of being hissed at every time I pass by a group of women.”

“Perhaps you should be nicer,” Hathorn suggested, irritatingly.

Cassandra took a deep, steadying breath. “There are a number of young women who believe us to be _involved,_ ” she hissed. “Dissuade them of this notion.”

Hathorn paused, considering. “This is really bothering you,” he observed.

“Of course it isn’t!” the Seeker said. “It is merely—inconvenient, and it will do the Inquisition no good to be divided in this way. I have already attempted to  make the correction, and was not believed. You must do it.”

“This is really inconveniencing you,” Hathorn corrected himself.

"So you will talk to them?"

Hathorn shrugged thoughtfully, patting Hen’Farel on the head. “Mmmm. No.”

Cassandra didn’t scream, but only just barely.

Hathorn had no idea why so many young women in Haven were making Cassandra’s life unpleasant, and he didn’t care so long as it kept happening. Cassandra had handcuffed him, and manhandled him about, and ordered him around, and insulted his religion. And she had _barely_ apologized for any of it, so as far as Hathorn was concerned, the situation was ideal.

It wasn’t until a trip to the Storm Coast and the resultant recruitment of the Iron Bull and his Chargers that Hathorn was clued in to the situation.

“Boss,” the Bull said as Hathorn walked by him.

“Bull,” Hathorn said back. He really appreciated the Iron Bull for his lack of loquaciousness. Also, his lack of shirt, and huge muscles.

“Hey, Boss,” the mercenary continued before Hathorn could depart to his next tedious task. Hathorn paused. “You know about the horde of women who all want to—you know—have a religious revelation with you, right?”

Hathorn blinked. “Yes?”

Several of the Chargers started chuckling and shoving each other. Bull shooshed them.

“No, no,” he said. “Not a literal religious revelation. You know.” Hathorn blinked, appearing not to know, so Bull continued. “Making the beast with two backs. Slamming the clam. Spelunking the slime cave. Amorous congress. Aggressive cuddling. Christening the druffalo. Corking the onion. You know.”

Hathorn waited politely with his arms clasped behind his back.

Bull sighed. “Fucking, boss.”

Hathorn’s expression shifted from barely-detectable puzzlement to barely-detectable surprise. “Oh. I see.”

The Chargers all collapsed in a pile of arms, armor and raucous laughter, pulling the Bull down with them. “Pay up!” Dalish told Skinner, who grimaced and handed her a pouch of coins. In fact, several pouches of coins were exchanged.

“Well, boss, now that you know, you going to do anything about it?”

Hathorn thought about it. “Mmmm. No.”

And he walked away.

That evening he found Sera in the tavern. He obtained drinks for both of them. He leaned in close over the table.

“Sera,” he said seriously. “I have recently discovered that _many_ of the women here at Haven are attracted to me.”

“No shite, Ser Lordybloomers,”  Sera snorted, quaffing half her ale in one go. “Now he figures it out!”

“Actually, Bull told me.”

“Andraste’s tits, you _are_ thick.”

“I am not. Merely indifferent.”

Sera laughed, and finished her drink.

“Well don’t just sit there,” Hathorn said in consternation. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Have a seventy-six-way?”

“I’m not going to do that, Sera.”

“Why not? Broken equipment?”

“No, Sera.”

“Against your religion?”

“ _No,_ Sera.”

“Then wh—”

“I like men, Sera. Exclusively. Not women. Not even a little. I kissed a girl once when I was twelve and I threw up. She hit me. Never did it again. Is this not obvious?”

“Shit, Lordybloomers, guess not. These people can be unbelievably dense, y’know? Like when men talk sweet to me. Eugh. Gives me the jeebies.”

Hathorn’s head thunked gently on the table.

Sera flicked one of his jutting ears. “There, there, twiggy. You got glowing green shit on your hand that let’s you fuck demons around. You’ll be fine.” Her face briefly scrunched up. “Hold on, I definitely saw a few men in that horde of yours. What’s wrong with them?”

He rolled his eyes. “Nothing was wrong with them. It's simply that I have my interests, and they are singular.”

“Right. Like the Iron Bull, and his huge muscles that you were telling me about yesterday. Personally I’d like to see what the Qunari women look like…”

“Ugh.” Hathorn rose suddenly, his chair scraping out behind him. “Well, I’m not acknowledging it. All this…claptrap. This is ridiculous. I’m going to the woods. To shoot things. Goodbye.”

Hathorn managed to successfully ignore all this claptrap for the next few weeks. First he was attempting an alliance with the mage rebellion, and then he was meeting a very handsome clever man from Tevinter, and then he was being thrown through time itself to a horrifying nightmare future, and then he was busy ignoring everything Cullen said to him at the wartable meetings. Cullen shouted, so this took a fair amount of effort, and Hathorn had to concentrate to do it efficiently. And _then_ he was closing the massive green demon-vomiting hole in the sky with his glowing hand, and then he was being attacked by an ancient darkspawn magister with an archdemon, and then he was nearly freezing to death in the snow, and then hiking to a mysteriously unclaimed castle in the wilderness, and then being given the title of Inquisitor.

Hathorn didn’t care for _any_ of that—except the part about the handsome Tevinter mage and his quaint moustache.

He had to admit, though, that he preferred _Inquisitor_ to _Herald_ , although he didn’t know what he was inquisiting any more than he knew who Andraste was. And he did like ordering the shemlen around. That was nice.

He busied himself making his recently acquired castle as obnoxiously Dalish as elvenly possible.

But the terrible fact of the matter was that a ridiculously beautiful man with an exotic racial background to be fetishized was certainly nice to have, but that same man with an illustrious title, a castle, and a lot of money was _ravenously desired._

Hathorn became, rather than pursued, hunted.

If you had pointed out the irony of this to him, he would have not only missed the point, but also, probably shot you with his hunting bow.

And he could hardly be blamed for his ill temper. He had not a single moment of privacy at any hour of the day. He was watched constantly, by increasingly large numbers of hungry eyes. He was pestered, flirted with, harassed. On several occasions, actually begged. On one occasion, he sat down at the tavern, and was instantly swarmed—there was suddenly a dwarven girl in his lap, a human woman carding her fingers through his hair, and a massive Qunari mercenary lady attempting a shoulder massage. Very insistently. Preventing him from escaping.

And Josephine was coming to him with _suitors._

Hathorn was beginning to become just a little bit uncomfortable.

Well, Hathorn was a man of Action, and Action was precisely what he was going to take.

He entered Josephine’s office through the window, which was a relatively safe way to get around Skyhold. He had, by necessity, discovered dozens of secret passageways and unknown shortcuts through the massive castle.

The diplomat did not even flinch at his unusual entrance. She had, in the first weeks of their acquaintance, very quickly grown accustomed to handling him.

“Josephine,” he said tersely, leaning heavily on the diplomat’s desk, his hair askew, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “Make an announcement that the Inquisitor is to make a speech at the top of the stairs today at noon. Spread the word. Have everyone there.”

Josephine made a note, not missing a beat. “Of course, Inquisitor. May I ask why?”

Hathorn ignored her—or perhaps hadn’t even registered the question. "Excellent. Goodbye.”

He bolted. Staying in one place for too long was dangerous.

At noon he appeared on the top of the steps, resplendent in his official Inquisitorial garb. A vast sea of faces of all races and creeds looked up at him, crammed together in the courtyard. He raised a hand—the glowing green one, for extra dramatic effect. Silence fell over the crowd. Hen’Farel (who, for no reason that Hathorn could possibly begin to guess at, habitually liked to sit in the rotunda and stare unblinking at Solas for hours at a time when not with his master) padded out from the keep to sit sleepily by his side.

He cleared his throat, and folded his arms behind his back. “Hello. Here is my proclamation—I like men. Not women. I will never like women. That is, sexually speaking. As friends they are fine. Women of Skyhold, your affections are not appreciated, or reciprocated, nor will they ever be. Leave me alone. Forever. Violators will be shot, with arrows. That is all. Goodbye.”

He went back inside the keep, straightening his jacket and breathing a sigh of relief. Surely this simple directness would solve things.

He was wrong.

Terribly, disastrously wrong.

A significant percentage of the intended audience simply did not believe him. A yet more significant percentage felt they would be able to change his mind. A few were making plans to don clever disguises. Another portion of Skyhold’s inhabitants were other men who liked men, and by now there were more of them than there had been women at Haven. And now that he had publically stated—not only his inclinations, but his _implied bachelorhood—_ well…

Hathorn would have had, quite possibly, even _less_ peace, were it not for one simple fact:

Dorian of House Pavus, Altus of the Tevinter Imperium, was in the audience, and now that he knew—

Now, he was a man on a _mission._

Not only was he a man on a mission, he was, as far as most were concerned, an Evil Tevinter Magister. And a necromancer. And a man with a rather intimidating sense of fashion and facial hair.

And, well, if Dorian Pavus did not want _competition—_ he would not have it.

Hathorn found himself, finally, blessedly, left almost entirely at peace.

For a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://gayspacejew.tumblr.com/)   
>  [my oc blog](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/)


End file.
